


simpering, boiling

by countingyourfingers



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-08-23 21:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20234104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countingyourfingers/pseuds/countingyourfingers
Summary: fragments of their lives, some bitter, some sweet, but all come together to soothe their souls, their legacies, their bonds.a series of hubertnand drabbles.





	1. the last seconds of some regrets

Ferdinand’s smile is so young, forever young that it hurts. Every bright flash of teeth burns into Hubert’s retina and every premature crinkle in the corners of those eyes wrung his stomach. 

_It is okay,_ Ferdinand chuckles, his lips and cheeks rosy like blooming blood, and Hubert cannot resist breaking his smirk for a smile. Never could.  


_I believe in her. I believe in you. You both have always been so brilliant, so much more than me. _

He smells Almyran Pine Needles in the husk of phantom breath, or it is the smell of flesh charring. There is perhaps no difference between the two. For a rare moment in his life, Hubert drops his hunger for precise scrutiny and just breathe in.

“You finally admit it.” _ Can’t you be cruel now, if you couldn’t be for once in your life, you imbecile? _ He laughs, greedy for any modicum that Ferdinand is still here, bantering with him over empty porcelain cups, but his ash-clogged throat produces a bloody gurgle instead. With his face pressed on cobblestone pavement, Hubert feels the vibration of worlds crashing, of cold spreading into his bloodstream, not unlike what he felt the day he got back Ferdinand’s scarlet, broken spear. 

He wishes there was nothing of note from him left behind to mourn over, too. It is the most reasonable outcome, as grief is a delayer, a weakness, and their campaign cannot afford any more mistake. Nothing to do with how Ferdinand’s funeral was attended by no one in his family, because he and Her Highness have burned down the von Aegirs’ reputation with the ease they reserved for scorching villages. Nothing to do with how they rendered Ferdinand ostracized by both nobles and commoners outside the Imperial Army’s circle, with no other foothold than optimism and a heart bleeding on his sleeves. 

“Well, I can be objective too, you know.” Hubert cannot see much now besides blurs of orange and red, but he knows Ferdinand is still smiling-an illusion of forgiveness, because only the living earns any closure from death. Nonetheless, he starves for it the way he starves for Ferdinand’s warmth and loneliness, his foolishness and maturity, the ability to turn back time and say the words they could not say. 

“You have done well. Rest, now.” 

So Hubert sleeps.


	2. we are allowed to be monsters

He did not remember being young.

It was a loss given no chance for self-pity, not when his father’s phantom fingers stifled any budding childishness with marks on his cheeks for misremembering the names of the leading nobles in the Empire, when his mother’s lips pressed reminders on his skin instead of kisses. One on his left hand, for a prosperity he will pay back after eating his way to comfort since birth. Another on his forehead, for an eventual shedding of love when he belongs to someone else.

Yet, Hubert remembered the moment Lady Edelgard first reached out to him, tiny digits and spongy bones with all the fragility acceptable for childhood. The girl’s palm covered the bridge of his nose, large enough to suffocate. The pads of her fingers were sticky with sweet berries and cicadas’ crushed coats. 

Hubert did not allow himself to breathe until she let go.

“Nice to meet you, Hubert,” the future emperor’s voice boomed across the small space between them, young and innocent from blood. 

Hubert smiled and steeled his heart, shedding all the softness he gleaned from his first six summers. 

“Use me as you wish.” 

It was not a difficult task, but Hubert never thought of himself as unfortunate.  
.  
.

.  
.

“Do you ever think for yourself?”

Hubert reminded himself of patience, of the fact there is always foolishness to balance genius. He counted to ten in his head as he watched Ferdinand’s irksome mouth spitted out nonsense, while his eyes remained steadfast focused on Hubert’s own. That was the gaze he gave Bernadetta as he listened patiently to her stammers when she asked him to explain methods for horses handling. The same one he gave Dorothea, as he corrected her sword grip to prevent injuries on her wrist. 

This idiot really thought he was being of help to Hubert, and if not for the passing gazes of students loitering the hallways, he might have just gagged on the spot.

It may take almost nothing to trample on Ferdinand’s stubborn pride, Hubert thought, because he knew all the ugliness hidden beneath the von Aegirs’ gilded appearance- people can rarely achieve power without some bloodshed and underhanded dealings. It doesn’t take a genius to realize Ferdinand’s overzealous devotion to everything he does is a pure white paper desperate to be free from a pot of ink, and Hubert had all the knowledge to crumble it. 

And yet.

When Ferdinand’s eyes dropped as he whispered how he has always wanted to be of help for their future emperor, when he tried to turn his shortcomings into a tool, Hubert felt something familiar clogged his pharynx. 

Their argument ended with no clear victor. In retrospect, Hubert thought his anticlimactic retreat was a devastating mistake.  
.  
.  


.  
.  
The first time he let blood splattered on him, he was not the one who killed.

He realized the sticky wetness on his chest only when the bandit had felled, skewered like a piece of meat by Ferdinand’s iron lance. Despite himself, Hubert grimaced-he has never been fond of gory evidences of death, so unsightly to look at and difficult to clean up. Nonetheless, gratefulness overcame disgust, seeing how the bandit was primed to lop off his head with an axe when he lost his footing and toppled down the field.

Even with grass in his hair and blood on his face, Hubert let out a chuckle. Propriety is damned for ones who have devoted their entire life soaked in death. “My, the esteemed von Aegir to my rescue. I did not take you for the type who’s more action than words.” 

Ferdinand’s usually impeccable features was stained scarlet, his expensive uniform disheveled and drenched in sweat. Hubert could have found an ironic humor in the other’s appearance, had he not seen the blank gaze of his eyes. 

“Yeah.”

Ferdinand did not look at anyone, when he responded. 

That, rather than the newfound unpredictability of Ferdinand’s character, stopped the insidious plans swirling in Hubert’s head to reign him in, to stifle the boy’s outrageous disrespect for Lady Edelgard before he learned to utilize his potential for cruelty and devotion.

“Are you okay?” 

Despite that, Ferdinand held out his right hand for Hubert to grab, as if Hubert was that weak and ill-adjusted from one attempt on his life. He ignored the way Ferdinand's pearly white smile shook, the way his eyes were cloudy with thoughts Hubert could not read, and encircled his fingers around Ferdinand’s surprisingly delicate hand. 

It was sticky with warm blood, yet Hubert did not find the sensation unpleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kinda fucked up when you realize even the "nicest" characters in this series has killed. a lot of people. 
> 
> will i ever overcome my hurdle with writing ferdie (seriously why tf is he the much harder one to write between these 2) and deliver smething ferdie-centric instead of making hubert sweating his balls out trying to psychoanalyze him and denying his budding feelings?? find out next time on dragon ball z


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